Domicile

By John Morris

Dare any mortal enter the dystopian world of modern children?
Since Dickensian times, no author has conceived so damning a commentary, concerning contemporary childcare.
Domicile is a place one must reside by enforced law.
This book is based entirely upon known fact.
Written through the eyes of a young girl who endured years of horrific abuse, Domicile exposes a British care system hell-bent on destroying normal, loving families.
Or is there another, more sinister motivation? Family Court must balance social worker claims of ‘possible, future emotional abuse’, against the foreknown emotion abuse of a child being taken into Care.
The book asks if in law, there should be Degrees of Rape. It proposes the level of intent of both parties be taken into consideration, and that anonymity for both be the norm until conviction.
But what sets this book apart, is that it follows the money trail, something police and press failed to do. Those in positions of deepest trust, and a Duty of Care, sold themselves out for money running into tens of millions of pounds. It is but a small step to conclude British judges and barristers, Social Services, Police, and Local Authority, are also an integral part of this travesty of justice.
The Muslims in Rotherham were also making Millions of pounds p.a. in untaxed, used notes. The figures are in the public domain, but nobody bothered to do the maths.
This book does.

What if––one of these girls was your own daughter, legally abducted:
10-years old, and already an unpaid Muslim sex slave?

Profits from sales of this book will go to charities supporting similarly abused children, including those in the British Pakistani Muslim community.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Morris
• Release date: Aug 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781910711132

John Morris

John Morris has stories to tell. His novels are absorbing fiction, which are intense and emotional at times, and funny at others. “I study the Human Species,” he relates. “I share this by writing a rainbow of human emotions. One minute the evocative words may make one cry, and the next, humour dispels the emotional miasma. Good novels, like real life, are a question of balance, and drawing the reader in.”Morris draws on his eclectic life experiences in his writing. He brings to the reader a range of heartfelt emotions, highs and lows of human life, as mirrored by humanity in general.“I am sharing my written words with readers, and feedback has been fantastic. I’m hungry to write more, and share with others life’s experiences. My books have several levels, but I love it best, when I use words to hide a clue written in plain sight. That is Cristie-esque.”Morris has never accepted anything simply because it is the norm. He admits, “I have enjoyed so many different careers, and seen so much of the world in the process, they seem like separate lifetimes. I always wanted to be a folk/rock star, because I’m driven to tell stories of people’s lives and loves, initially by writing lyrics. Whilst being very good at playing a 12-string acoustic guitar, I could not sing to save my life. Over time, I discovered I could write, poems and short stories at first, and then novels.”Born in England to a local father and an Irish mother, Morris has lived in China since 2004. He has held numerous positions, from the ten years he spent as a police officer specializing in serious fraud, to entrepreneur and world trader, to writer. Early on, he qualified as a Yachtmaster for sailing vessels.Aged forty-eight, he lost everything: his girlfriend, his home, his car, and because of that, his job. “It was a turning point. How does your mind work?” He asks. “I felt the bottom had dropped out of my life as I knew it, so after moping for a few months, I created a new life. I went to University to study Mobile Computing BSc. (Hons), and got my placement year in Foshan, China. I loved the culture, the people so much I never went back. Life is what you make it.”After two failed marriages, he is now happily married to Siu Ying, and living in the heartland of Cantonese China. Morris is father to their young daughter, Rhiannon. Morris is not a polyglot, but he speaks Cantonese to a conversational level. Although he and his wife do not share a common language, they communicate exceptionally well. “We’ve never had an argument,” he relates. “How could we, when neither of us speaks enough of the other’s tongue.”Morris writes about his cross-cultural experiences on his self-coded website, china-expats.com. He also designs and hosts web sites for other people and companies.Related websites:Author website:http://www.john-morris-author.comImprint website:http://www.charlotte-greene.co.ukStar Gazer website:http://www.star-gazer.co.ukA Letter from China:http://www.china-expats.com

Book preview

Unusually for a book of fiction, this novel contains references. This is to assist the reader independently check information in the public domain. It also supports details of the story some may think to be fiction, but are indeed fact, or based in fact.

Copies of the Printed book and EPUB are identical, except the printed book names links to the reference. This reference is square brackets, containing the chapter and chapter entry number. An example would be: [R 3.1], [R 30.12].

In the EPUB version, the link should work. Full references are again available after the end of the book proper.

Prologue

Isabella Waites had been stabbing her ancient teddy bear with the curved point of a metal nail file. Humphrey had belonged to her beloved grandfather when he was a child. She loved the bear, which had been a part of her young life for as long as she could remember. Now the milky soft stuffing was oozing from fresh wounds, and the ancient straw skeleton had been exposed.

Issy worked determinedly, until the second eye popped out and rolled across the cold tiled floor, coming to rest against a pile of ripped photographs, and the remnants of clothes she loved, shredded. Her anger flared again as she worked seams and removed both legs from her saintly bear—it was much too much for her to cope with, alien, hostile.

She threw the remains of the bear away from her in disgust, as her anger flamed once more. Memories of recent events flooded back like a tsunami, overpowering her raging hatred, and breeching her resolve. Amongst the debris of devastation rose a new and harsh emotion, utter isolation. She curled up on top a bed, and wept bitterly.

It was not her own bed. It was somebody else’s bed. It just happened to be in the room where they had put her.

Issy looked at the mess of her favourite cuddly toy and cried. Wracking sobs welled up from deep within her. Aspects of her heart she never knew existed before, flared like deep, livid welts.

She ignored the knock on the door, but it came again. The gentling voice of a man said, Your dinner is getting cold.

Isabella smashed herself into the door, jabbing the nail file into the centre panel and yelled with mounting venom, Get lost! Take me home!

The release brought silence from outside. She wrapped up in a ball on top of the alien bedding, seeking succour, needing desperately to feel her missing parents’ protective arms around her.

In time, she drifted into a nightmare world, one where happy memories and horrific events collided, each emotion struggling for prominence to control her future life.

Isabella could not understand why strangers had forcibly taken her from her parents’ loving arms. With the aid of armed police, she had been physically prised away from her mother’s protective grip, as her father fought desperately to keep her safe at home. He had also been arrested.

At eight years of age, Isabella could not understand what crime she had committed. What she had done that was so terrible, a gang of police felt it necessary to break down their front door and arrest all of them at six a.m. Her little brother included, and he was only a baby.

It got worse the next day: Isabella was in prison.

Chapter 1 – Bilty Steadman

Bilty Steadman put down the telephone, and looked out of the window, his mind lost within torturing thoughts. Rain battered the glass pane with the vehemence of a car wash. His eyes were momentarily blinded, when a whiteout of lightening silhouetted eerie buildings in the foreground. A neon sign flickered nearby, as people ran for shelter. Counting two seconds, thunder rolled like a damnation of the fates, obliterating all other sound.

He mused aloud, Two miles. About the same distance between Isabella Waites and this office. But is this omen, this atrocious weather, marking a passage to, or from danger?

His gaze returned to his desk, and his mind to that phone call. He eyed the files he was working on, and others newspapers wanted him to look into. Being an independent investigative journalist was an interesting life, and he was one of the best. Everybody wanted him to investigate their passion of the moment. He had a nose for a story, and the nous to discover the truth, a rare commodity in contemporary London. At times he felt more like a modern-day Philip Marlowe, at odds with the world around him, and sometimes with himself.

Rising from his leather chair, he closed the blinds, and returned to his desk with a bottle of whisky and lead crystal glass.

Isabella Waites. His eyes looked into the distance, unfocused, as he sat back and sipped from the glass. He repeated the name, before glancing at his notes, taken during the last phone call. There were few of them: a mobile phone number, and an address.

He felt indebted to her. She alone had the balls to challenge, and browbeat a system so Machiavellian, as to make the Devil himself drool with delight. The fervour had since died down, and ‘enquiries were ongoing’, mostly out of the public eye. The moment had moved on. Or had it? This would be their second meeting, the first as brief as two trains passing in a tunnel. She had left for the orient, but it appeared she was back, and eager to rekindle the flames of injustice.

§

Bilty, how delightful to see you again. Hurry inside, the weather is atrocious tonight. Something to drink before we start?

Likewise Isabella. Yes whisky on the rocks, it’s almost nine p.m. How was the orient?

Different, it gives one a larger exposure of life. I loved it, well, most of the time. But let’s get down to why I asked for this meeting. I thank you and others for following through on what we exposed. The thing is, nothing of substance has changed.

Not true. They locked up several gangsters, ringleaders, and that is only because of you.

"Agreed, but it’s nothing like the thrust put in by Operation Midland, that Metropolitan police hotcake to find dead people guilty of crimes it is impossible to legally convict them of.

"Meanwhile, I guarantee, that on any given night, thousands of seriously underage, white, British girls, are still being used as unpaid prostitutes. They remain in thrall to their Muslim grooming gangs, and nobody has acted seriously to stop it. I am mad as hell. They are still making a mountain of free money. Nobody followed that up. And the SS are still up to their old tricks, backed by closed courts. So Bilty, tell me what has actually changed for us ordinary girls. Eh? Fuck all.

I tell you Bilty, I expected the prisons to be full of Pakistani Muslim child rapists by now. But nope. They carry on as if nothing happened. I’m determined to do something about it. Will you help me?

Yes of course, but what?

That’s what we’re here to discuss. I want it all documented, and promulgated far and wide, so that everyone has access to the facts of my life. Well, except for the private stuff.

Isabella smiled, and her two accomplices, Zoë and Melanie tittered nearby. You mean like a film?

No, not a Michael Moor type exposé. I was thinking of more like a literary testament of fact.

A serious discussion, interspersed with flippant chitter-chat, and asides of innuendo ensued. Bilty stated, Isabella, you need to write a book. I’m thinking a work of fiction, but based upon your life, and those of your friends.

Me? Write a book. You’re joking. I barely have time for me.

Isabella, I can record your words, all we need is a voice recorder. I’ll run a transcription application after each session. How about it?

Melanie spoke for the first time, Issy, we can do this. I’ll video the interviews, and I have the latest, and British, text to speech software. Bilty, I’ll give you a copy, how about that.

Great, and a copy of the video—it helps frame the scene, shows the emotions. If we agree, I’ll bring in a trusted ghost-writer I know very well: my wife. Do we have a deal?

Yes. But this will be written as an exposé, understood. I retain final say on the content of the video copy you receive, the transcription, and also the book. OK?

Deal. When do we begin?

Tomorrow at two, just after luncheon.

Okay. I’ll be here. So tell me, what is this place...

Chapter 2 – World Perfect

Project Domicile

Interview: 01

Location: Fiddlers Court, The Oval, Holborn, Central London.

Time: 14:08 hours, Monday, 9th October.

Subject: Isabella Waites (IW).

Others Present:

Melanie (Mel) on camera and computer.

Zoë as friend, go-for, and minder.

Observations:

IW presents as a well groomed and highly educated young woman. She firmly shakes hands on entering the room, then chooses a straight backed chair. Her hands are clenched in her lap. Offered wine, whisky, coffee, or tea, she requests iced water.

Bitly Steadman

Please relax Isabella, and tell me about what happened to you.

"Hmmm. So many years ago now, yet sometimes it feels like just moments ago. I’ve thought about how I should tell this, and have prepared some notes to help me keep on track. I’ll use my childish words of back then, unless it breaks the flow. Where should I begin?

From the very beginning please, that would be ideal.

Isabella grouped her thoughts, and looked at her notes. She spoke her memories as if a monologue. She was recalling what had happened.

Isabella, wait. I want to hear this from your heart, not a vaguely recalled memory. My wife was insistent. Can you cast your mind back into that past, and relive it? Be a part of it, and not with us here now.

Cripes. I guess so. Yes, I can do that, but you’ll get the warts and all. Zoë, I’ll need a proper drink, and a spliff just in case. I’m about to put the record straight. To boldly go where no woman has gone before.

Isabella giggled, but it was false mirth. We all knew she was about to expose her personal trauma to the world at large. She moved around the room, before settling in an armchair near the coal fire. Feeling comfortable, she talked around the subject, before hitting the trail and trials of her life head-on. The transition was instantaneous, like switching TV channels.

Isabella

How did it all begin?

I'm about to tell everything, but I doubt anyone outside the system would believe me. It was all so innocuous at the beginning. I was at school and we were playing tag in the playground. I was the hit. I dodged several kids, as I squealed with delight. It was great fun.

They set a trap for me, but I saw it and again dodged away. I tripped over my own feet and went flying. My knees jarred into the gravel, as my outstretched hands sought to break my fall on the nearby grass. My palms hit and skidded, and my left eye crashed into the concrete retaining strip, that was essentially a low set kerbstone.

I had been tagged, but I was also bleeding. My knees were a mess, and I would end up with a black eye. Someone brought a teacher, and I was sent to see the Headmistress. My head hurt, and my knees had stopped bleeding, but were sore. They needed a wash with clean water, and some antiseptic cream.

The Head seemed overly concerned, due to what I now know as the possibility of a civil action. So she sent me to hospital for a check-over and treatment. She was only covering her own back; there was nothing wrong with me, save a few scratches that would soon heal.

A taxi was called to take me to hospital, and the driver was most sympathetic towards me. He touched my knees above the grazes and cuts, and peered at the injuries. He told me he was sure they were only minor. I was relieved, and did not realise his hand rested on my exposed thigh until he had to use it to change gear. I did not think it was strange. I thought that was a very caring endearment—at that time.

I was giggly, because the driver was quite funny. I thought he was either Pakistani or Indian, probably the former, but I wasn’t sure in those days. He kept overemphasising his native version of English, and saying absurd things. He called me ‘Princess’, and I guess I told him quite a lot about myself, and my family.

By the time we got to the hospital, we were friends. He dropped me by the door and moments later, came in with me after parking nearby. The queue was interminable and we were there for hours. Don’t ask me now, why I didn’t think it strange, that he stayed with me. He even took my picture on his mobile phone, and we did ‘selfies’. I thought that was great, because I wasn’t allowed to go near my parents’ mobile phones.

He wasn’t happy with them, so we went to a stairwell where the light was better, and he had me pose while he took several more pictures, and a short video. He seemed pleased with his shots, and after checking the slowly diminishing queue, he treated me to an ice cream.

We returned to the waiting area just before my mother arrived. She was clearly distressed, thinking something bad had happened to me. I was fine and wanted to go straight home. The wounds had stopped hurting by that time, and I was all right.

I introduced the driver as Sufdar Hassan, and my mother was outwardly delighted to know he had looked after me so well. However, there was a shadow in her eyes until he charmed her also. Your daughter is extremely bright, and she does you proud, it has been my pleasure to assist her in her time of distress. Unfortunately, I must leave, as my family are expecting me home for dinner. Please accept my business card and I will be pleased to be of future service. Thank you.

He stood, placing the card in my mother’s hand. He bowed his head to her and began to depart. The shadow left my mother’s eyes, and she asked, What do I owe you?

Sufdar said, Nothing good woman, it is the will of Allah that brought me to your daughter’s aid today. I am merely his servant.

I now realise, when a Paki doesn’t ask you for money, for either services or produce provided, they are up to something. I later learned that most white people are exactly the same.

Sufdar rose to his full height, and turned to leave. My mother ran after him, and they had an argument about money. She was not only determined to pay for the taxi fare, but also his time spent watching over me. Sufdar, to his credit, only accepted the cost of the fare, but my mother pressed his palm with a large note as a tip. He smiled, nodded his head, and innocuously left with a large smile playing across his face.

I am sure we would have left the hospital, had the school not sent me for treatment. The time dragged, until finally I was called and attended to. We all agreed my injuries were minor, but they were dressed after a doctor’s inspection, and soon after, we left for home.

It felt like an escape to me. We were late, so stopped for a take-away. It was from a Balti house, which seemed fitting with regard to Sufdar’s generosity of the day. How little did we all know at the time.

[Bilty interrupted: Is this where it all started?

Isabella, smiling wryly said, I know, it sounds quite normal, doesn’t it. And what happened the day after next. Well, I forgot about it all, until years later, when one image resurfaced in a very strange place. I’ll come to that much later. Let’s move on.

Bilty asked, How old were you?

I was eight, clever for my age, but not worldly wise.]

One knee was still a bit sore the next day, and it took me a few minutes to walk properly when I got out of bed, but with time it eased. The next day I was fine, and we were running late, as mother had to meet a client after she did the school run. It was her turn to take four of us to school that Friday. Outside the school was full of cars, so she dropped us off a little away from the gates. We had all done this before, and it was only a walk of fifty yards.

I was lost in talk with my friends when I heard the voice. We all ran for it, but my school bag was off my shoulders and I couldn’t keep up. The next thing I knew was my collar being yanked from behind, and blackness. I woke up in an ambulance. That time I was seen quite quickly at the hospital, a different one from before.

The doctor asked me what had happened, and I said, The bully-gang from school attacked us, and I was hit. I blacked out after that.

He looked at me in consideration for a moment, before he asked me how many times I was hit. I said, I don’t know. I was unconscious after being yanked back, and my head hit the pavement.

He asked me about my black eye and mused, before calling a nurse to send me for X-Rays.

When I returned to the cubicle, the doctor and a head nurse were talking quietly. They stopped speaking as soon as I entered. The doctor was charming, and the nurse over-indulgent. I knew something was up.

However, I was distracted by an examination, and in time told them about my home life. They were asking me questions, but sort of giving me the answers as well. At first I thought that was cool, but later, I realised that what I was telling them, was not the whole truth. The two were not the same thing.

From that moment, I stopped listening to their suggestions, and told them what I wanted to. The doctor dismissed me and I left.

I had nowhere to go except home. My school attendance had been cancelled for the day. I managed to use a hospital telephone to call my mother, but her line was still engaged after the third attempt. The receptionist stated, You’ve used up my goodwill. You need to find another solution. Goodbye.

I was faced with walking home, and it was a very long way, perhaps two miles. Trust me, when you’re eight years old, have a heavy school satchel to drag around, and have a slightly groggy head, two-miles is a very long way to walk.

I had been walking for what seemed like hours, but in reality it was only half a mile. I was lost within the drudgery of trudgery, when a car pulled up and pleasantly hooted its horn. I turned to look, and saw Sufdar smiling back at me. I hopped in his cab and he took me home. We stopped on the way for an ice cream.

By the time he dropped me home we were firm friends. He had been there for me twice, when even my parents had been too busy with their own lives. He thanked me for brightening his day as I left the cab, and I thought him a true gentleman. He said he would wait until I was safely inside. Bless him.

I turned and waved to him as I reached the path to the rear of the house. It seemed natural he would reverse and wait until I unlocked the side door. He was so caring and considerate. I found the hidden spare key out back, and within moments, waved to him again as I entered my home. He waved back and moved off immediately.

[Isabella: It never occurred to me until just now, Bilty, that Sufdar discovered we had a key hidden in our rear garden.

Another piece of the puzzle fell into place as Isabella downed her drink. I have no idea if Sufdar, or another, ever found the key, or used it. Knowing the human species, I would guess that he did. Did he enter my bedroom? Sniff my panties? Oh My God! I have no idea, but the thought repulses me. This is sick stuff.

Bilty added notes to his pad. Please continue, I’m listening.]

In those days, I wasn’t paranoid. I knew somebody was looking out for me. That was a treasure my parents gifted me, as was Sufdar. For a few weeks, he always seemed to be around when I needed help. I got used to his taxi honk, him pulling up, and I hopped inside because I trusted him. He was my best friend after all. He bought me treats and always made me laugh.

Today, I do not believe in coincidence. He was stalking me, grooming me in fact. Sometimes when he stopped for me, there would be another girl in the car, but she would always be on the back seat looking glum. I was always in the front. Those girls never spoke to me, even when I tried to make small talk. They were all going to a big school, like they were thirteen or fifteen. After a while I ignored them.

I’m not sure how long it was, perhaps a few weeks, I don’t know. What I do know is that one day I was called out of class because somebody wanted to have a word with me. The woman looked old, although I guess she was in her early thirties. There was another woman in the room, who I guessed was mid to late twenties.

At the time, I thought I liked both of them, but afterwards I wasn’t so sure. The lead woman asked me some really stupid questions, like how often my father hit me. I told her neither of my parents had ever hit me, or even spanked me, even when I knew I had been naughty. The younger woman loved my answers, and encouraged me to say more.

I told her a couple of secrets, like when I blamed the baby for something I had done. She was nice to me, and asked what else I had done. I told her daddy and I fought sometimes, and she said, What did you fight about. How hard did he hit you?

Daddy never hit me. We were arguing about my pocket money.

I thought it strange when the older woman stopped us, saying, But you fought with your father. Is that correct?

Yes, quite often.

I had expected them to ask about our rows, which were sometimes about my bedtime. But they seemed happy when I told them I had been fighting [R 2.1] with daddy, and they never asked for more details.

Somehow, they made me speak for a long time. I know that what I said, and what was later presented as evidence in Family Court, was not the same thing. The difference between us was, I did not have my own recording to disprove it. I did not realise the interview was being recorded. They were choosing which bits to use as evidence, editing out the context in which my words were said.

The older woman spent most of the interview writing things on a long form. The younger one asked most of the questions, and kept making me laugh. The time passed quickly. Near the end, the older one asked to take my picture, and I thought nothing of it. She had a proper digital camera and took several, just in case one did not come out right.

I was released, but the bell had already gone for lunch. I remember being a little upset because I had missed five minutes of break.

That day mummy picked me up from school, and told me she had seen Social Services [SS]. She told me they were supportive and helpful, but she had been advised to complete some forms. I told her about my interview, and it was clear she was worried. However, she hugged me and said, You did well. Don’t worry about it, it’s just a misunderstanding.

Bilty

This is horrendous, Isabella. I take it Social Services were responding to the second Doctors report to them.

"Hmmm. One would presume so, but I now know that was not the case. They were asked to pursue it by a third party I didn’t know anything about until years later.

"I don’t want to give the story away just yet, so let’s assume it was because of the second Doctor. Then everything that happened fits neatly into place. He did submit a report later, when asked to by the SS.

I’ll pick this up again from the end of the week, but refresh our glasses first. This is thirsty work.

Please, but coffee for me. Your memory is very good.

Yes, it always has been. I can remember like replaying a video.

§

Bilty:

Personal Journal:

Notes:

1. This is most unsettling, and especially knowing something else was going on, but what?

2. So far, there is nothing of any worth, so how did it lead to life-changing events. Ah, IW has returned and we will resume.

Chapter 3 - The Courts of Injustice

Isabella

The rest of the week passed and I tried to forget about it, but mummy and daddy talked about it downstairs when they thought I was asleep. I was worrying about them, as they worried about me. I didn’t sleep much that week, and felt tired every morning. I knew something was very wrong, but no one spoke properly to me about it, because I was a child.

Some days later, we were asleep when the gang of thugs arrived. It was 6 a.m., and men with guns were banging their demands on the front door of our home, Open up!

My father had answered bleary-eyed, and stared into a face he had never seen before, but would always remember.

The woman waved a piece of paper in the air, and demanding, said, I have come to take Isabella Waites to a place of safety. This is an Emergency Protection Order, which you must comply with. You must hand her over to me, now!

Dad replied, becoming conscious of many police officers behind the woman, I will not unless you show me the warrant properly, and specify exactly why you are removing my daughter.

She spat malignantly, You have already seen the warrant, let us in or we will break the door down.

She pushed the door with her hand, but it caught on the chain. My father slammed the door shut and yelled to my mother. She had already rushed into my bedroom and was picking me up from the bed.

I was groggy, disoriented, and we were all frightened out of our wits. I wanted to pee, but there wasn’t time. It was still the middle of the night for me. I threw on some clothes as quickly as I could, my mother ordering me what to do as I tried to come awake. She was panicked, and I was responding. We raced down the stairs moments later, hoping to reach the back door and make good our escape.

We made it into the kitchen before mum saw a shape near the back door. She turned at once and we ran for the dining room window. Glass splintered behind us as a police officer put his elbow through the kitchen door and unlocked it from the inside. They were inside as mum opened the window to send me outside, and to safety.

It opened and hope remained, until the police gun appeared. The man said, Stop where you are, or I will fire.

His gun was pointed at my head. I was terrified. I wee’d and shit my pants in fright. Mum backed away, and picked up a letter opener from the table. We backed away as policemen with guns rushed through from the kitchen, pointing them at both of us. Mother threw down the letter opener and grabbed me, holding me extremely tightly. Police overpowered and handcuffed her. I tried to stop them, hitting anyone that got in my way, until I was also put in cuffs. That didn’t stop me biting any flesh that came within range of my mouth, and I made several incisive bites, until they taped my mouth as well.

Once we were secured, I could hear sounds of fighting upstairs coming from the baby’s room. There was a loud crash and people were shouting. A woman took me to be cleaned up in the bathroom, and when I returned my father was also in handcuffs. The baby was the only one not cuffed. We were taken out to different cars, and I stayed with a foster family for seven days.

It was hell. I hated them, just because I had to be there. I cried. I missed my parents so very much. What had I done for this to happen to our family? I could not find an answer, except that it was all my fault.

One week later, I was delighted to see my family once more, and we celebrated being together again. Later, I was to learn that after we were arrested, mummy had been kept in a police cell overnight, and was charged with threatening a police officer with a lethal weapon. A letter opener, come on! They were pointing loaded guns at her, and me.

The SS kept in touch as the days passed into weeks. There were meetings and assessments with my mother, forms were completed. I didn't find out about most of it until a long while later.

I did not understand at the time, why they chose late Friday afternoon to come and take me away from home. I now know it was because we would not be able to get legal representation until Monday morning, by which time we would already be before the Family Court. Meanwhile, the Social Services team had ample time to polish their reports and complete their case file. It was a complete set-up.

At 10 a.m. on Monday morning, we had to go to something called Family Court. They tried to make the place look child-friendly, but it looked and smelled all-wrong: phoney.

Mother was only allowed to speak to answer a couple of mundane questions, her name and date of birth. Dad was also there, but kept apart, and never allowed to speak [R 3.1], other than to confirm his identity, and that of us children.

Social Services presented their initial concerns to Judge Selwyn Lewis, making a case for me to be ‘At Risk of possible physical and mental abuse in the future’, if I remained at home, or even in the area.

No one in the family [R 3.2] was allowed to challenge what was said. My mother tried to present the school statement, and that of the first doctor, but neither were allowed because there was no chain of evidence. She shouted, You are distorting the truth, telling lies, and making things up! She was ordered to be quiet or she would be removed from Court.

The prosecution made a damning case against my father, citing my black eye as proof of physical abuse. He defended himself, stating what had happened and told the Court he could prove it. He was told to be silent, as his outburst would only harm his defence.

Social Services provided an expert medical report stating that the (unqualified) ‘expert’ expressed the opinion, "The black eye is an injury consistent with being hit by her father."

[Bilty glared, Consistent? Where is the proof? This is at best conjecture, and full of holes. It means nothing, other than supporting one reason how the injury could have occurred. There could be one thousand other explanations. Ridiculous!

Isabella replied, Yes it is. But these are the tricks they use. We are not allowed to challenge them, or present our own reasons or proof in defence of the allegation. Why? So the court accepts the preposterous, and set’s that above the truth. This is how they twist information to kidnap us into care.

Agreed. And on extremely spurious grounds. Pray continue.]

Dad shouted, I have never hit her. She did it at school.

He refused to be quiet, was held in Contempt of Court, and led away to prison.

I was also shouting out what had actually happened, and my mother continued protesting after I was ordered to shut up. She challenged the next lie told, and was taken from the courtroom by force.

The Judge granted a Provisional Care Order, and I was to be taken away to a new home. I cried out that I wanted to be with my parents, but was told by the Judge to be quiet. I spoke again, and kept shouting the truth, until the Judge ordered I be removed from court.

"The needs of the Child remain paramount."

Huh. A load of bollocks if you ask me. But then, I was never allowed to speak in court. Why not? That is supposed to be my right in law: British Law, European Law, and United Nations International Law.

I was denied by the court, my right to speak at all.

The two women who had been allowed to say a lot of things came for me. I screamed as loud as I could, I hate you all. I love mummy and daddy. I want to be with them. I threw my best ever tantrum and was still yelling and lashing out with fists and kicks as they grabbed my arms, and physically dragged me from Court.

That was physical, mental, and emotional abuse, in court, deliberately caused by the SS, and sanctioned by the court itself. It seems to me, that both Social Services and Family Court, think they are above the law, and have zero understanding of the immense anguish they unnecessarily inflict on young children.

It would not have been a factor, if they had left us alone.

I should have listened to what was being said in Court, because then I might have known what was about to happen to me. As it was, I did not know the Judge had supported their recommendation of a physical examination to support the allegation of possible sexual abuse. Therefore, I was a bit shocked when we pulled up at a private clinic. I was put in a room that smelled awful, told to completely undress, and put on a hospital gown.

I refused at first, but the SS told me the Judge had ordered it, and it was a way for me to prove my daddy was innocent. I faltered, and one of them offered to take me for a burger treat if I behaved myself. Even though I was starving, I said, I’m not hungry.

I was left alone in the room, and sat and stewed within the depths of my dilemma. My tummy started rumbling, and I undid my trainers. A nice nurse came in at that moment, and she was light and breezy. She almost made me laugh, but I did my best to remain glum. She coaxed and cajoled me into the hospital gown.

The nice nurse left, and was replaced by a female doctor a few minutes later. She was chatty, and showed her concern for me. She asked me about my cut knees and fading black eye. I told her the truth, and she accepted it. She even wrote it all down on a form just like I said. I knew she was not one of them, and that I could trust her.

She ran several tests and had me do things. She never stopped talking, except to listen to what I had to say. She made me feel important. She felt all over my body, before asking me to sit in a strange sort of chair. She told me not to worry, and examined my Fairy. I thought that was very strange, but she only took a moment and was happy, telling me I was perfect and had nothing to worry about.

[Bilty: Why on earth did they do that?

Ah. Wise up, Bilty. I now realise the whole point of the examination was to check if my hymen was intact, which it was.

For the love of God! Bilty shook his head.

Issy continued, I know the full facts behind that, Bilty, and will relate it all in due course. Meanwhile, you have a think about the why of it. Why checking an eight-year-old girl was a virgin, should ever be important—That is, to a Family Court or the SS. Remember, sexual abuse was never mentioned.

Bilty looked up, Locking Issy’s eyes, I guess they may have been looking for evidence of sexual abuse?

No Bilty. The real reason is far more sinister, as are the actual workings of the SS and Family Courts.]

I was allowed to dress and went out when I was done. I found four women waiting for me, and was told I had to go with the new people as my case was now transferred. One of the ones I knew gave me a bag, Here, Isabella. We packed your rucksack for you, with things we thought you would need.

I peaked inside, and was not sure if what they thought I needed, and what I knew I needed, existed in the same universe. I closed the zip, whirled, and hit one of them hard; like me, our family, she had not seen it coming. Before I could get the second one, strong arms locked me down, and I could not move.

Now, now Isabella. I hope you’re not going to be troublesome again. This would all be so easy if you’d behave yourself.

Then take me home! There never was any trouble, until you lot barged in and took me from my parents. Where’s my mother?

My outrage was futile. They were much bigger and stronger than I was, back then. They settled me by tying me up. I still looked for ways to get back at them, and complained about the burger treat they had promised me.

The younger of the two new women said, We’ll head off at once. But only if you promise to be good.

I will. I promise.

Good. I’ll take off the ties, if you mean that?

I do. I’m just very upset right now.

It’s always hard at the beginning, but you’ll...

My anger started to resurface, and the SS officer changed tack mid sentence, I know. Have you ever had a King Burger?

I hadn’t, but some of the kids at school raved about them. I said as much, and was at last able to look forward to something. I thought they would take me somewhere local, but instead we drove out of Manchester and onto a motorway.

We were on the M6 headed south for Birmingham, when after half an hour, we pulled into the services and I had my first ever King Burger. It was great. We continued heading south, and I was so bored, I half-slept on the back seat. It was dark when I was shaken awake. They had stopped by their office first apparently. We were minutes away from the house I would stay in that night.

The place turned out to be a care home, and while the older woman talked to the person in charge, the other took me through to the restaurant. The cook was clearing up and apologised, but said there was no food left. I looked around. Some big girls were lauding it across the room, picking on younger fry, and they looked real scary.

I wanted to leave right away. I was frightened.

We went outside, much to my great relief, and I had my second King Burger of the day. It did not last long, as all too soon I was returned to the building, and shown to my room. I decided not to go outside, because the bullies would be sure to target me.

Instead, I locked my door and sat on top of the bed. I was all alone, and could not stop crying. I missed my mummy and daddy so very much. I even missed by little brother. My heart hurt, and I lay awake for hours feeling utterly worthless. I did not understand what I had done that was so terribly wrong.

[Bilty: You did nothing wrong, Isabella. You know that?

"Yes, I do now. I did not back then. That is important.

I blamed myself for what happened, not realising how wicked the Family Court and SS were.

"I’ll log that as emotional abuse, inflicted in full foreknowledge, by the Court and Social Services.

That you said to them, ‘ I’m just very upset right now.’ Also demonstrates emotional abuse, by the SS.

At the time I was frightened stiff, and extremely unhappy by the all of it. That was abuse. I’ll continue.]

I missed breakfast the next morning, because I had been awake half the night. I was woken when the supervisor came in, and I had to go with the two women from yesterday. We went to a different court, and I remember the Judge looking long at me in an extremely odd way. His name was Judge St. John-Smythe. I couldn’t put my finger on why he made me feel extremely uncomfortable, but he did.

He seemed to be looking at me constantly, and so much so, I stopped looking at him unless I had to. I answered a few questions, like my name and age, and said little else. I wanted to say a lot, to tell them what I had gone through, and how wrong everybody had treated me and my family.

I never got the chance, and it was like this had already been decided before I got there. It was incredibly quick, and I was transferred. The Judge reserved my case to himself, and granted an Interim Care Order.

I was taken away to a foster home. I hated the place as soon as I set foot inside. The woman in charge was overly pleasant to Social Services, but changed into a demon as soon as the door closed behind my captors. I remember she made a big show of locking the door with a large key, from the chain she wore round her midriff.

That night I destroyed Humphrey, my Grandfather’s teddy bear.

Bilty

This is horrendous, Isabella. I know the Court of Protection, of which Family Court is a part, are zealously over-protective, and to the point of secrecy. But, they cannot ignore the rules laid down in law. Can they?

You wanna bet? They believe they are above the law, and act with total disrespect for the laws [R 3.3] and prescribed channels of guidance they should be following. I believe that before I left for the Orient, I proved this. Nothing has changed since.

But Isabella, surely you were allowed to challenge the Expert Witness. There must have been corroborative evidence, without doubt.

"No. Disallowed in Family Court. As are the rights of the child. I was not even allowed to speak!

What the SS state is accepted without any challenge being allowed. It is a kangaroo court. Later I’ll explain the why of it, but not yet. This is a part of what we girls, abused by Family Court, call The Courts of Injustice.

I remain most unsettled by what you have told me so far, Isabella. There seems to be a hidden form of judiciary applied to Family Courts, one that appears to be at loggerheads with its stated function and practices.

"Yes, that would be correct. How observant of you.

"You’re supposed to be the best, so prove it. A judge cannot be sacked, or barely reprimanded. But they can be prosecuted and imprisoned. That appears to be the only means to get rid of these low-life scumbags.

Or, they can be killed.

The icy stare that followed IW’s last words, sent a chill through Bilty’s heart. In that moment, he knew she was capable of murder.

We are done for today, Bilty. This stuff takes its toll you know. I’m sort of feeling my way into this quagmire of human decrepitude, and it hurts deep inside. Even now. You as well I guess.

Okay, Isabella. That suits me fine. About the same time tomorrow will be good for me.

No, I need to work tomorrow. Wednesday it will be.

§

Bilty:

Personal Journal:

This is all most unsettling, and a clear dereliction of approved points of evidence. Much admitted as truth, is at best hearsay, but it is allowed in Courts of Protection. It is not admissible in criminal court, except under extreme and specific circumstances. Even then, Hearsay is not regarded as reliable, but perhaps at best, indicative.

Notes:

1. I am horrified that armed police were deployed, and yet this appears to be standard practice. I will review the rules of deployment.

2. The mere fact Isabella emptied her bladder and bowels, indicates extreme emotional distress. Surely this could have been avoided, handled differently, and it should have been challenged in court.

3. Why was the Waites family not allowed to challenged unsupported evidence, as supplied by third party ‘experts’?

4. Were consistent, is a prejudicial statement based upon nothing of fact, nor of probable fact. At best, it could be construed as an unlikely possibility. That should never be allowed as a ruse to tear children away from their parents. There must be a legitimate reason. Family court appears to be bereft of any legitimate reason, except substantiating itself.

5. Why was that ‘evidence’ accepted by the court without question?

Follow up:

6. Research the rules of Family Court. Plus relate to how these courts function in practice. Compare those practical functions with EU and UN Human Rights Acts.

7. Also obtain a copy of The Children and Families Act, given Royal Assent on 22nd April 2014.

8. Then: Compare these to the way Isabella, and others were actually treated, by said courts.

9. Follow/discover the money trail. I remain unsure just what IW means by this, but I will try.

Chapter 4 – Wednesday

Project Domicile

Interview: 02

Location: Fiddlers Court, The Oval, Holborn, Central London.

Time: 13:57 hours, Wednesday, 11th October.

Subject: Isabella Waites.

Others Present:

Melanie on camera and computer.

Zoë as friend, go-for, and minder.

Vikki, another friend, but older, more worldly wise perhaps.

Observations:

IW seems much more relaxed today, and again she chooses comfortable seating, as if in soirée. We chat around irrelevant inanities, and she insists this part be called ‘Wednesday’.

Moments later, Vikki hands IW a long glass of brackish liquid, and whispers something. Then without another word, but within a long slug and aberrant flick of her head, we begin.

Isabella

I was dead to the world when someone opened my door with a master key. I was dragged from the bed, sound asleep, and dumped on the floor, like a rag doll nobody cared for any more. The pain of my mouth hitting hard tiles replaced my dreams of safety at home. My elbow jarred into the tiles, breaking my unexpected fall. I was yanked up by my hair, without concern, like flotsam or jetsam, salvaged from a ravaged shore only the un-forgiven have ever glimpsed.

I looked up into the eyes of my tormentor, a woman of middle age. She was a monster. Behind her hovered a male who also seemed afraid of her. I was waking-up quickly to this new world, but not my fate. The pain in my head from being so roughly woken, only made my heart hurt worse. I was far too young to compete with her, my resistance faltered when the strange woman shouted at me.

Just days before, had I lived happily with my parents. That day I was in prison––foster care they called it. I was being bullied by much older people I had never met before, and hated. I cried.

Above me stood the matron who dispassionately pronounced, You missed dinner last night. You will not miss breakfast, except to suffer my wrath, child.

She twisted my ear and it hurt. I scrambled to dress quickly, deciding to comply, at least until I understood what sort of hellhole I was sentenced to live in. I knew it was a very bad one. I reasoned that by keeping quiet and doing what they wanted, might just see me through it—until I could escape.

I did not know what to do, except to do as they said. I didn’t even know where I was, except it was many hours by car from where I used to live. Everything smelled and tasted different. It was scary.

In the meantime, my mind was working on all sorts of atrocities I would inflict on them, if only I were bigger and stronger. At eight years old, I could only be smarter than they were, so that became my plan for survival. I decided I needed to slip into the background somehow, like being a part of the furniture.

That thought vanished as soon as I sat down at the breakfast table. I sat opposite another inmate who was a few years older than me, and who completely ignored me. I said, Hello, I’m Isa…

The horrible woman, my jailer, instantly cut off my words of friendship; I do not know how you were dragged up girl, but in this house, children only ever speak when spoken to, and we never speak at table.

Chastened, I looked at the place setting. Before me was a glass of orange juice. I tried it, but it was rancid, not sweet like orange squash, and tasted foul. Beside it was a slice of grapefruit, which was sour and tasted just like the juice. I chewed through the first chunk slowly, wanting to be sick, before swallowing large chunks as soon as they entered my mouth, rather than eating them properly. That meant I didn’t have to taste the fruit, it was horrendous.

The other girl took all the plates and put them in the kitchen by the sink, and I had to help her. By gestures only, we returned to table—she sat there, remote and unreachable. I was looking around, examining this new place. It was not like my old home, and I felt my heart hurting again, like somewhere very deep inside.

I did not cry, because proper food appeared for the first time. It was an egg in an eggcup. The top had not been removed like mummy always did, and beside it lay a teaspoon. I tried to copy what the other girl did, and eventually managed to gouge the egg open, but many bits of shell fell inside. The worst of it was the yellow runny yoke seeping down one side. I turned that part to